Darwin's Blade (23 page)

“Including Dallas Trace,” said Dar.

“We think so,” said Tom.

Dar took a drink of single-malt again before speaking. The light made the amber whiskey glow in its glass. “Why would these lawyers—presumably if they're at or near Trace's level of success—take such a risk when they already make millions of dollars legitimately?”

Tom's hands stabbed out like an infielder getting ready to handle a hot grounder. “At first we couldn't believe it either. Some of it may be personal…like Esposito's involvement in the death of Dallas Trace's son, Richard…but most is just business. You know how many billions are hauled in every year through injury mills and fraudulent claims. This…Alliance…of big-time lawyers appears to be taking out the middlemen.”

“Literally taking them out?” said Dar. “As in murdering them?”

“Sometimes,” said Syd. She looked tired. The last of the evening light on her face showed wrinkles that Dar had not noticed before. “Gennie Smiley and Donald Borden, for instance…We haven't found them in San Francisco or Oakland. We haven't found them anywhere.”

Dar nodded. “You might try the bay itself.” He glared at Syd without meaning to. “So when the Russians took their shots at me, you got me into this because you hoped I'd trip Dallas Trace's hand somehow? Why? Because you knew that I'd made the videotape reconstructions?”

Syd leaned forward quickly, a look of concern or pain on her face. “No, Dar, I swear. I knew that Dallas Trace had seen evidence that his son had been killed—we interviewed Detectives Fairchild and Ventura because it was strange that the homicide unit had taken over the investigation from the accident unit—but I swear, I promise you that I didn't know that you'd done that reconstruction tape until you showed it to me at the cabin.” Tom remained silent, looking from one to the other of them as if trying to understand the tension that suddenly filled the room.

“So why did you bring me along to face Dallas Trace?” asked Dar after a moment.

Syd set her Scotch down on the rough-planked coffee table. “Because the tape was so
good,
” she said. “No rational man could look at that and not believe that his son had been murdered. I was willing to give Dallas Trace the benefit of the doubt until yesterday. But once he looked at that reconstruction video and then threw us out, I
knew
he was into all this up to his neck.”

Dar sighed. “So what the hell do you want me to do?”

“Help us,” said Tom Santana. “Keep working with Syd. Use your reconstruction skills to get to the bottom of this Alliance conspiracy.”

Dar did not respond.

Syd turned to Tom Santana. “Dar doesn't believe in conspiracies.”

“I didn't say that,” snapped Dar. “I said I don't believe in
successful
conspiracies. After a while, they collapse from their own weight of ignorance or because the people involved are too stupid to keep their mouths shut. That Helpers of the Helpless crap…”

“It's not crap,” Tom said. “Things are changing. Things are getting deadly. Instead of swoop-and-squats on surface streets, you're seeing these fatalities on the freeways…”

“And at the construction sites,” said Syd.

“People are getting recruited for the usual stuff—fender benders, whiplash claims,” said Tom. “But they're dying instead, and guys like Esposito and Dallas Trace are making more money off of them than ever before.”

“Esposito's not making any more money for anyone,” muttered Dar.

Syd leaned forward, her hands clasped. “Will you join us, Dar? Will you help us on this project?”

Dar looked at the two of them sitting there on his couch, so comfortable with one another. “No,” he said.

“But—” began Tom.

“If he says no, he means no,” interrupted Syd. She pulled a semiautomatic pistol from her belt under her loose vest. It looked like her own nine-millimeter pistol, but chambered for a heavier round. “Are you familiar with one of these, Dar?”

“A handgun?” said Dar. “I saw one in a dead man's hand this afternoon.”

Syd ignored his sarcasm. “This kind of Sig Pro, I mean.”

Dar looked down at the small semiautomatic with obvious distaste.

“I know you've seen Sig-Sauers,” said Syd. “This is the new SIGARMS polymer design. Very small, very light.” She set the pistol on the table. “Go ahead…heft it, try it.”

“I'll take your word for it,” said Dar.

“Look, Dar,” Syd began, and stopped as if fighting to keep her voice under control. “We didn't get you into this. When those LAPD detectives—and we think they're both on the take—showed Trace the video reconstruction you'd given the accident unit, well…that's when the Russians were sent after you.”

“We're certain the Alliance has brought in some top Russian mafia figures to enforce their takeover of major fraud,” said Tom Santana softly, slowly. “We have evidence that Dallas Trace himself has hired an ex-KGB agent as his primary enforcer—a member of the
Organizatsiya,
Russia's organized-crime syndicate. This enforcer is bringing in more Russian mafia as the need arises.”

“And you think this little polymer Sig Pro is going to make a difference?”

“It could make all the difference,” said Syd, her voice angry now. “You saw how easily Tom and I got into your condo building. There's a single San Diego PD unmarked car parked across the street, but those guys are on overtime and they're probably both half asleep by now.” She dropped the magazine out of the pistol and set it aside, racking the semiautomatic to show that there was no bullet in the chamber. “This is my personal weapon, Dar. This type of Sig Pro fires .40-caliber Smith and Wesson ammo and it's about the most accurate semiauto on the market. The U.S. Secret Service likes these weapons…the Sig Pro comes up well on target and puts the rounds right where they're pointed.”

“At another human being,” said Dar.

Syd ignored him. She took the canvas off the long package. “The pistol would be for personal protection when you're out alone,” she went on. “I've got a permit in the works for you, but you won't be arrested for carrying it no matter what. And for the apartment and the cabin…”

“A shotgun,” said Dar.

“I know you were in the Marines,” said Syd. “I know you were trained in the use of weapons…”

“More than a quarter of a century ago,” said Dar.

“It's like riding a bike,” said Tom Santana, no sarcasm in his words.

“You had a .410 Savage over-and-under at some point,” said Syd. “You probably recognize this shotgun. It's a classic.”

“A Remington Model 870 pump-action twelve-gauge,” said Dar flatly. “Yeah, I've seen them.”

Syd reached into her big bag and then set two boxes of cartridges on the coffee table. Dar could see that one box held Smith & Wesson .40-caliber bullets, the other a yellow box of 00 buckshot shells.

The chief investigator nodded toward Dar's front door. “Somebody you don't like comes through that door, Dar, a single pull on this trigger releases nine .33-caliber lead pellets at muzzle velocities ranging from eleven hundred to thirteen hundred feet per second. That means as much lead in the air as eight rounds from a nine-millimeter semiautomatic.”

“Close-range firepower,” said Tom Santana, “with quick-velocity drop-off and less risk of overpenetration than most firearms. It's why police prefer them for close-in situations. And under…say, twenty-five yards…it's almost impossible to miss.”

Dar said nothing. The three sat in silence for several minutes. The sunlight had gone.

“Dar,” said Syd at last, leaning over the table to touch his knee, “if you're not going to work with us, or let me be around you, then you need some extra protection.”

Dar shook his head. “No on the pistol. That's final. I'll keep the shotgun under the bed.”

Chief Investigator Olson and Inspector Santana looked at one another. Then Syd took the Sig Pro and its ammunition and put them away in her bag. “Thank you for keeping the shotgun at least, Dar. The magazine holds five shells, and the pump-action—”

“I've fired a Remington 870 before,” interrupted Dar. “It's like riding a bike.” He stood. “Anything else?”

Both Syd and Tom shook his hand at the door, but neither said anything until Tom handed Dar his card. “I can be reached at the last number at any time, day or night,” said the FIST investigator.

Dar slid the card in his jeans pocket, but said, “I've already got Syd's card somewhere.”

For an hour after they left, Dar just paced the apartment, not even turning on the lights. He slid the shotgun and the shells under his bed and came back out into the main living area, restless. He poured another glass of Scotch and stared out at the lights of the city below and at the slow movement of boats in the bay. Aircraft landed and took off from Lindbergh Field, suggesting a purposefulness and energy that Dar did not share.

Finishing his drink, he went into his bedroom cubicle again. In the bathroom he turned on the shower and stood under the hot spray for several minutes, letting the water pound some of the whiskey fuzziness out of his head.

He came out into the dark bedroom carrying the towel and drying his short hair. He turned on a light. The bedroom was merely an enclosure created by built-in bookcases, but his closet was fully enclosed and its door had come with a full-length mirror that he had meant to take down. Now he blinked at his own reflection.

Is there anything sadder-looking than a naked middle-aged man?
thought Dar. He started toward the closet door, as much to get the mirror out of view by opening the door as to find his pajamas, when the first shot was fired. The mirror shattered. Broken glass cut Dar's face and chest. He stumbled backward, knocking the lamp off the low dresser.

The second shot was fired into darkness.

T
here were so many cops in Dar's apartment that it looked like a donut shop during graveyard watch.

A ballistics team worked on re-creating the precise angle of the two bullets from where they shattered the high windows on the north side to their point of impact. Sheets and painter's canvas had been hastily nailed up over the other windows. There were half a dozen uniformed officers in the room and more plainclothes people. Special Agent Jim Warren was there representing the FBI, with his assistant, a short, intense woman. Captain Hernandez from the San Diego Police Department was there with six or eight of his usual entourage, as was Captain Tom Sutton of the CHP. Syd Olson and Tom Santana were also there, sitting on the leather couch and staring at the rifle on the coffee table.

“I've never seen a rifle like that before,” said one of the CHP officers. The man was sipping coffee from one of Dar's white mugs.

“It's a civilian version of one of the sniper rifles your SWAT team would use,” said Syd.

“Have we run down the make?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I recognize it,” said Tom Santana. “It debuted at an NRA show in Seattle a few years ago. It's a Tikka 595 Sporter with a Weaver T32 scope.”

“How far away was the rooftop?” asked Captain Sutton.

“Almost seven hundred yards to the north of here,” said Syd. “I actually saw the first muzzle flash and was on my way before the second shot was fired.” She nodded toward two uniformed officers sipping soft drinks in the kitchen area. “I was staked out on the hill above the condo, so I radioed the unmarked car out front to check on Dr. Minor while I went in pursuit of the assailant.”

“But you didn't know about the fire escape,” said Special Agent Warren.

“No,” said Syd. “I went up the main stairs and onto the roof as fast as I could. I saw the suspect on the second level of the fire escape and still descending. I fired two shots, but missed.”

“One of them was a warning shot, presumably,” said Captain Hernandez dryly.

“The shots made the assailant drop the heavy rifle into the dumpster below the fire escape,” said Tom Santana. “But then he reached his car and got away before Investigator Olson could get down the fire escape.”

“No make on the car, Syd?” asked Captain Hernandez.

“I couldn't see any plate numbers. It was American-made. Compact. And it was long gone by the time I was down the fire escape.”

“You missed from three flights above the assassin,” said the CHP's Captain Sutton, “but the marksman put two bullets right on the mark from seven hundred yards…in a light drizzle? Incredible.”

“Not so remarkable,” said Syd. “The shooter had been up there for some time, waiting for Dr. Minor to turn on a light. He'd even dragged up two sandbags to create an optimal shooting position. You notice that the cheekpiece on the hardwood stock of these military-style sniper rifles is adjustable…Our man had time to adjust the locking screws so that the cheekpiece was raised just the perfect height for his angle shot.”

“No fingerprints,” said one of the forensics people.

Syd and the others gave the man a tired look. “Of course not,” said Captain Hernandez. “We're dealing with a professional here.”

One of the ballistics men came over to the rifle. “Remarkable shooting from six hundred and eighty yards. We've calculated that the first was a perfect heart shot. We dug the slug out of the rear wall of the closet. The shooter was using Winchester .748 forty-five-gram handloads—”

“We know that,” said Syd. “There were still three cartridges in the five-capacity chamber when we recovered the weapon. No brass at the shooting site.”

“Bolt action,” continued the forensics man, undeterred. “He pocketed the brass from the first two shots, but he still got off the second shot in less than two seconds. And it would have passed right through Dr. Minor's skull on the floor if Dr. Minor had fallen where the shooter rightly expected him to be. Also—”

“Would you all please quit referring to Dr. Minor in the third person?” said Dar irritably. “I'm right here.” He was sitting in his Eames chair, wearing a green bathrobe that didn't cover all the dressings the paramedics had put on his chest and neck for glass cuts.

“You wouldn't be there,” said Syd, “if the shooter hadn't sighted in on your mirror reflection rather than you.”

“Lucky me,” said Dar.

“Damned right, lucky you,” agreed Syd, sounding angry. “If it hadn't been for that very light drizzle, the slight fog that came in from the ocean this evening, a slight mist, this scope would have told the shooter he was looking at your reflection in the mirror rather than a flesh-and-blood target. Even from almost half a mile away, this guy put a bullet right through your heart.”

“In the mirror,” said Dar. “Seven years' bad luck.” He sipped hot tea and paused to look at his hand as he held the cup. It was shaking very slightly. Interesting. “And why were you staked out there anyway, Investigator Olson?”

Syd's eyes narrowed. “Just because you weren't going to help us catch these bastards didn't mean that I was leaving you unprotected.”

“Not much protection involved, was there?” said Dar. “The fellow got two shots off…By the way, are you sure it was a man?”

“Ran like a man,” said Syd. “Dressed in a windbreaker and ball cap. Average height. Average to slim build. Never saw his face and it was too dark to tell his race or nationality.”

Captain Hernandez was straddling a kitchen chair pulled into the circle around the coffee table. He put his chin on his forearm and said, “Is it standard procedure, Investigator Olson, for law enforcement officers from the state's attorney's office to go after shooters single-handedly…not wait for backup?”

Syd smiled at him. “No, Captain, it certainly isn't. But Tom was my backup and he and I were going to take turns on shifts for a few nights. I'm sure that my superiors in Sacramento will remind me of proper procedure.”

“Good,” said Hernandez. “So where does that leave the investigation?”

Jim Warren of the FBI crouched next to the coffee table. “Well, we don't have prints, we don't have a description of the shooter or tag numbers on his car, but we've got his weapon. The Weaver scope isn't that unusual, but there can't be many of these Tikka 595s sold. And even though an initial dusting didn't turn up any prints on the three cartridges still in the magazine, perhaps the FBI lab will find something. They usually do. And we'll backtrack on the hand-loaded Winchester .748 MatchKing 8THPs…It's not your usual deer-hunting ammo.”

There was more talk. Dar finished his tea and found himself half dozing, feeling the pain from the cuts and an ache from the tetanus shot but mostly feeling sleepy. Lawrence and Trudy called about 2:00
A.M.
—they were plugged into a serious network—and it was everything Dar could do to keep them both from coming over, too.

It was dawn by the time the last of the uniforms and CHP people left. There were two San Diego PD unmarked cars on sentry duty now, a CHP cruiser on regular patrol, and Dar could just barely make out the uniformed officer with a rifle on the roof of the shooter's building—an old warehouse two blocks north. Dar didn't think the assassin was coming back today.

Finally only Tom Santana and Syd Olson were left; both looked very tired.

“Dar,” said Syd, setting her hand on his knee.

Dar snapped awake. He suddenly was very aware of the pressure of Sydney Olson's hand, the presence of the other man, and the fact that he had only had time to pull on his bathrobe by the time the mob arrived. “What?”

“Does this change anything?”

“Getting shot at always changes things,” said Dar. “If it keeps up, I may become religious.”

“Goddammit, stop playing games. Will you consider helping us directly now? It will be the only way we can insure your safety and put these arrogant bastards away.”

“All of them?” said Dar. “You think you can catch all of them? Tom, how many cappers and bulls and cows and clinic workers and attorneys were there in that Vietnamese operation you broke up some years ago?”

“About forty-eight people,” said Tom Santana.

“And how many did you get indictments on?”

“Seven.”

“And how many did you send away?”

“Five…but that includes both attorneys, the only legitimate doctor in the bunch, and the head capper.”

“And they were out in…what? Two years? Three?”

“Yeah,” said Tom, “but the attorneys aren't practicing anywhere, the doctor moved to Mexico, and the capper is still on parole. They're not staging accidents any longer.”

“No,” said Dar. “Now it's the Alliance and the
Organizatsiya.
The game never changes…just the faces.”

Santana shrugged and walked to the door.

“Don't forget to put the police bar in place,” Syd said, and turned to follow Tom Santana to the elevator.

Dar took her by the wrist. “Syd…thank you.”

“For what?” she said, looking deep into his eyes. “For what?” She left without waiting for an answer.

It was strangely dark in the condo, even after sunrise, because of the canvas over the tall windows. Dar made a mental note to have some blinds installed as soon as he could. He went back to the bedroom, shrugged off his bathrobe, and crawled under the comforter. He thought he would be asleep in seconds, but he lay there for some time, watching the filtered sunlight move across the high ceiling.

Eventually Dar slept. He did not dream.